Slowly, the medical man shook his head.
"I am sorry, m'sieur," he said quietly. "I can offer you little solace. Her lungs already are filling. I doubt that she can last until morning."
The other was breathing hard. His eyes were like fiery gimlets.
"Isn't there anything you can do?" he begged, half-sobbing. "Can't you at least give her something so she'll recover consciousness? I must talk to her—"
"That I can do."
The physician turned back to the bed. Raised the dying girl's head from the pallet to administer doses of several medicines.
"I have done all I can," he said. "From here it is in the hands of Le Bon Dieu."
Dazedly, Mark thanked him. Paid him with coins from Jacques Rombeau's wallet.
The door to the room beyond opened on sagging hinges and Gustav Jerbette stepped out. His eyes still were red-rimmed from drink, but otherwise he appeared sober.
"It's done," he said in a disgusted tone. "Lord knows it looks like nothing in this world or the next, but it's done."